Sherlock Holmes and the Boston Cream Pie
by To My Surprise
Summary: A parody I wrote for English class. Holmes and Watson must solve the disappearance of a family heirloom-a 42 year old Boston Cream Pie! (Note: This is based more on the Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce series than the books, explaining why Watson is goofier


On October the nineteenth, I got a telegram from my friend Sherlock

Holmes, saying that he had a case he thought might interest me. In two seconds I had caught a cab and was headed toward Baker Street where I was sure a remarkable case awaited me. When I got there I found Homes in the familiar position of hanging from the ceiling by his toes.

"Hallo Watson!" he cried upon seeing me, "I've a real puzzler here, I wonder what you'll make of it!"

"Well I don't know until you tell me Holmes, what is it?"

"A cake, Watson, a Boston cream pie to be exact."

"What about it?" said I.

"It was stolen."

"How shocking!"

Holmes drew from his pocket a telegram, reading:

"Dear Mr. Holmes,

Please help me; I am at my wit's end. There is a baking contest next week and my prize winning Boston cream pie has gone missing. I have left the scene untouched, and I hope you will come and have a look,

Sincerely yours,

Cookie Baker"

I admit that this letter left me baffled. Why would anyone want to steal a Boston cream pie? Why wasn't it more sensible to just buy one?

"I think," said Holmes, "that we should go have a look."

"Well of course," I agreed, "but why would anyone want to go to the trouble of stealing a Boston cream pie?"

"We shall soon find out," said Holmes, calling a cab.

Several hours later, we reached a large estate, covered with all sorts of people selling an amazing assortment of baked goods. When we reached the gate, our pockets were full of cookies.

We reached the house and were immediately greeted by a tearful young lady who sported a humongous handkerchief.

"Oh please, please help me!" she cried, "that cake has been in my family for 42 years!"

"What a fruit cake," Holmes muttered.

"I thought it was a Boston cream pie," I said with some confusion.

"No, I meant the lady," said Holmes under his breath.

"Well she does seem to be a nut," I replied.

She then led us into the mansion and through an astonishing maze of halls and corridors, until we reached the kitchen. On our way I had noticed several smudges of what looked like custard on the floor, but I thought nothing of it. In the kitchen, the only striking features were a large crystal cake plate and some scattered crumbs near the door opposite the one we had come through.

Holmes inspected the scene without moving, and then said, "Could you tell me what happened the day the pie was stolen?"

"Well we were al preparing for the contest when I was called onto the grounds, there had been a report of a burnt out oven at the booth of the chocolate chip cookie sales man. Everything was under control by the time I got there, so I headed back to the house. When I was about halfway down the hall, the door slammed behind me. I immediately heard scuffling from the kitchen. When I was about half way there, I heard the sound of thundering footsteps going to the back door. I harried to the kitchen, only to find my precious cake gone!" She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. "That was when I wrote to you, Mr. Holmes."

"Well," I said "I think someone stole it to keep you from winning the contest."

"Obviously," she said tearfully, "the problem is not why it was stolen, but how to get it back!"

Holmes meanwhile was licking chocolate off the cake plate, and when I looked up, he jumped like a surprised rabbit and hastily began examining the crumbs on the floor. He then picked up a somewhat larger crumb with chocolate smeared on it.

"Ah!" he cried, "I have it!"

"What?" the lady cried, "You can get my cake back?"

"I am afraid it is too late for that," Holmes sadly replied, "but I know how to find the culprit, he will have an upset stomach and custard on his boots."

"How on earth do you know that?" I asked in some bewilderment.

"All in good time Watson," said my friend smugly. "Now we shall go out to the booths and catch the culprit."

We walked down to the grounds and began searching for a man with "an upset stomach and custard on his boots." We seemed to have gone through hundred of booths until we came to a booth selling chocolate chip cookies. The sales man there was wandering around his stall, moaning and leaving yellow custardy tracks behind him.

"Ha!" cried Holmes, "You are under arrest for the thievery of a Boston cream pie!"

"What? I'm innocent I tell you!" he cried, "I – ow, I feel sick."

And so we had caught him, but I was still in the dark about how we had done it. On the train back to London, I inquired of my friend "So, what exactly happened to the cake, and how did you know?"

"Well, it was quite elementary my dear Watson..." he replied.

"For you it always is, now explain."

"Well, when he door slammed behind Miss Baker, it alerted the thief, who promptly ate the Boston cream pie and ran."

"What about the upset stomach?"

"Eating a 42 year old cake is not good for one's digestion!"

"I see." Said I. And so we made our way back to London.


End file.
